


Sick days

by rimz08



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rimz08/pseuds/rimz08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to the prompt: 5+1 times one of them was sick and another looked after them? Maybe 5 is Treville. Maybe the +1 is all of them. Does not even have to be 5+1, I would deeply love any combination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trying a 5+1. Wish me luck. Suggestions gratefully received!

1.

It is a warm, balmy night. They are sitting around the table in the garrison courtyard, celebrating a mission well accomplished. Other Musketeers have joined the four of them and the wine is flowing. Aramis, standing on the table, is regaling them all with a tale of daring adventure, complete with all the necessary gestures, when out of the corner of his eye he notices Porthos slinking off into the darkness.  
"And then," he declares, "I rode off on my trusty steed," and jumping down from the table, he pretends to gallop off on his horse into the distance, stealthily following his friend into the shadows.  
The musketeers cheer and call for more, but Aramis just waves goodbye to them from a distance, heading towards the stables. He hears hoots of disappointment, and knows that he cannot expect either Athos or d'Artagnan to live up to his theatrical standards. Maybe they'll manage a quick joke or two, possibly at his expense.  
"Porthos?" he calls out into the darkness of the stables.  
His horse whinnies in response, "Not you girl, we're not riding tonight," he says, stroking her head. Over the smell of horse he can make out another odor, vomit. And he soon hears retching.  
He follows the direction of the noise and finds Porthos curled up in the corner.  
"You idiot!" he berates his friend, "why didn't you ask for help?" he asks, kneeling down next to him.  
"Didn't want to ruin your moment," Porthos replies, before vomiting again, clutching at his stomach.  
"Really? And in the stables? Come on, you need to be in bed," Aramis reprimands him. He puts a hand to his friend's forehead. "You're running a fever. I just hope it was something you ate and it isn't catching, or the whole garrison will be ill," he says, shaking his head in worry. And with that he puts one of Porthos' arms over his own shoulders and heaves him up. Porthos never ceases to be amazed by his friend's hidden strength, in particular when someone needs looking after.  
At the entrance to the stable Porthos hesitates. Aramis looks at his friend's face and understands. He doesn't want the whole garrison to see him like this. It will wound his pride, his reputation for physical strength. To Porthos, appearing in public when unwell is unthinkable.  
"Wait here," Aramis instructs him, positioning him against a wall so that he won't fall down when left unsupported. He then takes Porthos' money bag, extracts a couple of coins and sprints over to join the others.  
Porthos, feeling both too ill and too grateful to be annoyed, watches in amazement as Aramis whispers to d'Artagnan and Athos, before jumping onto the table again.  
"And my gift to you all: drinks, courtesy of the coin I won in that skirmish, at the Bad Wolf!" he shouts out, brandishing the coins in the air above his head. The musketeers cheer and rush out of the garrison en masse. Porthos hopes for a second that no one will be crushed, before he is occupied with vomiting again.  
Once everyone has gone, his three friends approach him. Aramis tucks the coins into Porthos' pocket, then supports him up the stairs to his room, with Athos on his other side, d'Artagnan leading the way to open the door and light a candle.  
"You're going to be in trouble," he murmurs.  
"It'll be fine. They'll be so drunk they won't remember what I said. And then they'll all get into a fight. It'll give everyone something to talk about for a while," Aramis replies with a grin.  
"At least the Red Guards never go to that inn," says Athos drily.  
"Exactly! We can be sure there will be no scuffles tonight!" Aramis exclaims.  
"Besides, we'll look after him," d'Artagnan says chivalrously, ruffling Aramis' hair, only to be swatted away.   
"Don't touch my hair. It takes a long time to get it this perfect!" turning to his attention to Porthos, Aramis begins to undress him while the others prepare the bed and get a bucket ready on hand, a pitcher of water and some cloths.  
"I told you not to eat the stew at that inn," Athos mutters.  
"I was hungry!" complains Porthos.  
"I ate it too, and I'm fine," chimes in d'Artagnan.  
"You, my lad, are from Gascony," comments Athos, as if nothing more need be said.

 

They all spend the night in Porthos' room, splayed out on the end of the bed, in a chair and (poor d'Artagnan pulling the short straw) on the floor. Aramis makes Porthos drink a few sips of water every ten minutes or so, shaking him awake when he drowses. They take turns to empty and wash the bucket and clean up their friend, as well as putting damp cloths on his forehead.  
"This reminds me of that time with the eels in Calais," Aramis reminisces. D'Artagnan pricks up his ears, always happy to hear tales of their past escapades, "Do you remember Athos?"  
"Oh, only too well," Athos grumbles sleepily.  
"I think I'm going to thrown up just from thinking about it," groans Porthos miserably.  
"Yes well, some people seem to think they are a delicacy. I can't understand the appeal myself."  
"Shh!" whispers d'Artagnan. Outside, they hear drunken Musketeers troop into the garrison, screaming out Aramis' name. Blowing out the candle they all lie very quiet. The drunkards appear too inebriated to think of checking his friend's rooms, and although the next day Aramis will spend a long time cleaning up the wreck of his own, it will all have been worth it to see his friend healthy again, pride in tact.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' day off. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra points for anyone who got the DW reference in the previous chapter...   
> This one also draws a little on a different prompt about the boys knowing the others "tells" for when they are getting ill.

Athos always finds guard duty at parties tiresome. He has no patience for the frivolity of these affairs, himself having attended many, or the nobles' ridiculous pursuit of luxury and pleasure.

The others are never as frustrated by these events as him. D'Artagnan is still new enough to Paris to be in awe of the sights, sounds and tastes. Porthos relishes the opportunity to raid the desert trays as clandestinely as possible and Aramis usually takes the opportunity to flirt outrageously with the most beautiful young women present, fleeing the advances of anyone over the age of 23 or less than perfectly stunning.

Which is why Athos senses that something is wrong when he sees Aramis at the edge of the marquee, away from the crowds, massaging the bridge of his nose. This is reinforced when a young lady, of exquisite beauty, with alabaster skin, blonde curls piled on her head and a neckline plunging further than the drop from a bridge into the Seine, walks past him, dropping her fan with the obvious intention of attracting Aramis' attention, only to receive no response whatsoever. She picks up her fan herself, with a decidedly unimpressed look on her face.

He crosses the room to Aramis and places one hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Do you have a headache coming?" he asks him.

"Unfortunately, I rather think I do. And this terrible music is not helping."

The music is, by any standards, atrocious, the strings squeaking and screeching horribly. Athos cannot begin to imagine what his friend is suffering.

Athos guides Aramis out of the marquee onto the perfectly kept palace lawns. Outside it is slightly less stuffy, although he knows the sunlight won't help his friend. He leads him over to a tree and sits him down in the shade.

"Stay here, I will return." Aramis only nods miserably, convincing Athos of quite how bad his state is.

 

Inside the marquee again, Athos seeks out Treville. He is waylaid by the King himself, nonetheless, who seeks his opinion on a matter of swordsmanship, and although itching to extricate himself from the conversation cannot do so for some time. He is relieved when he sees Treville approach, and the king turns to the captain of his guards to ask his thoughts on the matter. Athos signals to Treville by only moving his eyes that they need to speak, and the captain begs to requisition him for "essential musketeer business", after which they are positively shooed away by the king.

Outside, Treville kneels down by Aramis, pushing the now sweaty hair out of the way of his tightly shut eyes.

"I'll send word for four replacements from the garrison," he whispers to Athos, "you take care of him."

Seeing their captain and Athos leave the party, it doesn't take long for Porthos and d'Artagnan to follow, Porthos stuffing a half eaten soufflé down his doublet. They cross paths with Treville in the middle of the lawn, as he makes his way to send word to the garrison.

"Looks like Aramis has one of his headaches," Porthos tells his younger companion. "Party's over for us."

D'Artagnan looks at him, enquiringly.

Porthos sighs, sometimes forgetting that the boy hasn't always been with them, part of the inseparables, even if it may feel like he has.

"Ever since Savoy, the head wound he got, sometimes he gets these terrible headaches, can go on for days. Needs to lie down in the dark, not move. You know the kind."

D'Artagnan doesn't, but he nods anyway.

When they reach the others, he is surprised to see how Porthos reduces the noise he makes to a minimum, and ensures his movements are gentle and soft. "Can you walk, or should I carry you?" he asks quietly

"I'm not a damsel in distress!" exclaims Aramis, although even speaking causes him to wince.

"Right then, on three," says Porthos, taking one of Aramis' arms, while Athos takes the other and helping to rise slowly. Aramis sways horribly once on his feet. D'Artagnan, feeling at a loss, wonders what he can do to help. But Athos already has a job in mind.

"Did you see the matron with the bejeweled fan, the one flirting with Aramis earlier?" D'Artagnan nods. "Good, she is the Comtesse de la Sue and has taken a fancy to him. Go tell her that Monsieur Aramis has been taken unwell and would be extremely grateful if he could borrow her carriage."

"Athos," Aramis grinds out, "don't do this." Although in reality he is too weak to resist and d'Artagnan has already gone off to fulfill his mission.

"This is cruelty," wails Aramis, "I am feeling nauseous from the thought of what she will expect from me in return."

"No, you are nauseous from the headache, and you need to lie down in a darkened room as soon as possible. You can't walk back and a horse ride will be hell. My plan is perfect."

Porthos chuckles at Athos' cool headed thinking, but stops when his laugh causes Aramis to wince in pain again.

 

D'Artagnan runs on ahead of the carriage to prepare the room, darkening it as much as possible, preparing cool water and cloths, at Porthos' instructions.

By the time they reach the garrison, Aramis can no longer stand and Porthos carries him up to his room. Once there they undress him, lay him down and put cool cloths on his forehead. No one speaks and they try to avoid the parts of the floorboards that creak, since any noise causes him to groan loudly.

Athos holds the bucket for him when he begins to vomit, and Porthos supports his head, stroking his hair with gentle calming movements, d'Artagnan offering him sips of water. And their well oiled routine continues through the night and into the next day, until Aramis falls into a calmer sleep. The others soon follow suit, completely exhausted from their ministrations.

And that is how Treville finds them, as evening draws in, all four fast asleep. He looks at their faces, so relaxed in their slumber, and decides not to wake them. Instead, he leaves the letter from the Comtesse on the beside dresser. It is the first thing that Aramis sees when he wakes and he thinks he might vomit all over again, but not because his head hurts.


	3. Athos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is also partially inspired by another prompt:  
> Athos fainting in the heat while on guard duty  
> Porthos' line (I'm thinking of fainting for something to do) was a joking stab at Athos who has passed out with heat stroke (though the hangover might have had something to do with it) in the past. He was expecting Aramis to laugh, because it's a much mocked event.
> 
> The gentle mockery of people who are actually worried please, followed by the frustration of realising the drink might be involved and trying to hide that from the Captain

Accompanying the king on a hunt is none of the Musketeers' idea of a great day out. The king, over exuberant at the best of times, needs to be watched like a hawk and protected constantly, while he chases animals round in circles in a forest from which any number of enemies can spring out at any given moment. But the king must be defended, and so Treville has to force his men to take turns going hunting. It is an exhausting day, physically and mentally, which usually buys them some time off afterwards, to sweeten the bargain a little.

Since they woke up at the crack of dawn for duty, d'Artagnan has noted that Athos is even less talkative than usual, if such a thing is humanly possible. He and the others had all retired relatively early the night before in preparation for the taxing day ahead, but he isn't sure when Athos left the tavern, if he did at all. He looks the worse for wear, has his hat pulled firmly down to shade his eyes from the light and the bits of his face that can be seen look pale and drawn.

When d'Artagnan comments on this to Aramis, the older man shrugs his shoulders. "Athos hates hunting even more than the rest of us," he tells his young friend, before riding off ahead.

And d'Artagnan can certainly understand that. It brings back memories of a past Athos is trying to forget, of hunts in the forests around his own estate, with his father and brothers, and the thoughts of home bring with them memories of his wife and the tragedy she brought down upon him. D'Artagnan supposes that it was too naïve of him to hope that after she left Paris Athos would simply be happy. He still has a long way to go.

When they return to the palace gardens to eat lunch, Athos sits down under a shady tree and falls asleep. D'Artagnan tries to rouse him and persuade him to eat something, at which the other man shakes his head forcefully. Eventually he consents to drink some water, before dozing off again.

"Something's not right with Athos," he tells Porthos. Aramis is engaged with one of the maids of honor who surround the queen during the lunch break, but when he sees the others whispering he bows low to the lady in question and joins them briskly, clapping his hands around their shoulders with a smile on his face.

"You look entirely too happy for a hunting party," moans Porthos.

"Hmm, sorry, I will try to suffer more," he can't tell them that being this near to Anne, seeing her swelling stomach that carries his child, is making him smile.

"I was just saying that I think something is really wrong with Athos," d'Artagnan repeats.

"He's probably just hung over. Has he eaten anything?" Aramis asks.

D'Artagnan shakes his head.

"If Treville finds out he'll be in trouble," comments Porthos, "he's been warned about drinking before hunting before."

"So what do we do?" asks their youngest member.

"Always practical," says Aramis, "I do like that in you. Now, let me think…"

 

 

A few hours later, d'Artagnan sees Athos lagging behind and beginning to sway on his horse. He slows down his own steed and tries to strike up a conversation with him, hoping that it will keep him focused and prevent disaster. He passes him a water flask, and encourages him to drink from it. But neither plan seems to work, especially when Athos stops his horse and leans forward to vomit up the water, retching horribly, before continuing to move forwards slowly.

The rest of the party is moving away and d'Artagnan realizes that the time has come to put Aramis' plan into action. He silently steels himself and apologizes to his faithful mount for what he is about to do, before extracting the metal pin from his belt buckle, and reaching round to stab the horse's buttock with it, not too hard, but sharply enough to cause surprise and shock.

The horse, clearly annoyed, takes the opportunity to rear up on its hind legs. D'Artagnan, skilled rider that he is, could calm the horse, or hold onto the reigns, but that would defeat the point of the exercise entirely. He murmurs a quiet prayer as he lets go of the reigns and allows himself to be thrown off the horse, as he has not done since the age of six, ready to tumble into the green, bushy overgrowth. He lands on his side with a thump and rolls over a number of times before hitting a tree stump. His horse, meanwhile, has bolted.

Hearing the commotion, the party up ahead stops immediately. Porthos, Aramis and Treville quickly gallop over to d'Artagnan. Meanwhile, Athos dismounts ungracefully, moving unsteadily over to his friend and sinking down on the floor beside him, although no one really notices in all the confusion.

D'Artagnan is bruised and scraped and thinks his wrist is sprained, but nothing feels broken. However, he pretends to have been knocked out cold, letting his eyes remain closed and the others fuss around him. He hears Aramis assessing his condition, using the words concussion, head injury and feels hands probing his head, his ribs and arms. He senses Athos next to him and hears the other man's deep breaths as he tries to steady himself, not wanting to vomit again in front of everyone else.

At this point he blinks his eyes open warily. Attention focused on him, with Aramis shouting that he is awake and people asking him inane questions, allows Athos to move further away from the crowd and retch in peace. As Aramis and Porthos help him up, he makes sure to exaggerate his injuries. He doesn't want them to be able to continue the hunt.

"D'Artagnan," Treville asks him, "what happened?"

"I don't know sir," he says, as shakily as possible, "something spooked my horse. Your majesty, I am so dreadfully sorry,"

The king waves his hand dismissively.

"Think nothing of it, strange beasts, horses," laughs the king. "Can you continue?"

"I fear not sire. My hand is hurt and I believe the horse has bolted."

"What a damn shame!" cries the king. Treville looks unhappy. D'Artagnan can see that he doesn't believe for a minute that a farm boy with as much riding experience as he has let his horse get spooked and throw him off.

"Never fear, your majesty," Aramis intercedes. "Let Athos take d'Artagnan back to the garrison on his horse, and they will send two men in their stead. There will be a delay, but we have many more hours of light left."

"Wonderful! Yes. Treville, your men are truly devoted. Let us break for refreshments while we wait!"

 

Porthos and Aramis use the guise of helping d'Artagnan to get Athos onto his horse. D'Artagnan sits behind Athos, taking the reins in one hand and with the other making sure his friend doesn't fall off as they move. And in this way they make their way back to the garrison. Athos murmurs in complaint a few times, but d'Artagnan ignores him and keeps going.

At the garrison d'Artagnan dispatches two musketeers in their place, before getting Athos to his room, undressing him and lying him down. Athos tries to bat away his hands, but is too weak to have an effect.

"You are an idiot!" he slurs.

"So I have been told many times. But I learn from the best," says d'Artagnan with an accusing look. "How much did you drink last night?"

"Don't remember," pouts Athos. "You damn fool. You could have been hurt!" Athos grabs at d'Artagnan's hand and the Gascon winces as he catches the sprained wrist. Athos shakes his head, but that makes the room spin, and he stops abruptly to vomit into the bucket which d'Artagnan brings to him just in time.

"Doesn't help it's hot out there and you've not been drinking."

"Shut up, mother hen! You're almost as bad as Aramis." Athos complains.

"Here, drink this, tiny sips. Aramis told me what to do." D'Artagnan informs his friend.

Eventually, Athos collapses back into the pillows and gives up the fight, closing his eyes. Every few minutes d'Artagnan dribbles a few drops of water into his mouth, and is happy that he doesn't vomit again. He closes the shutters to make the room dark and puts a damp cloth on Athos' forehead.

"Not much more I can do, I'm afraid. If Aramis has some wonderful cure for this he didn't share it with me," d'Artagnan states.

"He probably wants me to suffer, as punishment." Athos groans, "he thinks I'll learn a lesson."

"He's just worried about you. We all are. I thought things were getting better," d'Artagnan says, quietly.

Athos, still drunk enough not to guard his tongue completely, replies, "They are. It's just…today, the hunt…it brings back memories…"

"Come on Athos, this isn't your first royal hunt."

"No, but the first one on what should have been my wedding anniversary," he answers, but then looks angry with himself for saying it out loud.

"Don't worry," says d'Artagnan, taking his hand, "I won't say a word. Just rest now. I'll be here."

 

 

It's after dark when Porthos and Aramis join them. D'Artagnan has fallen asleep in the chair next to Athos' bed and wakes up with a stiff neck and aching joints.

"Give him something for the headache when he wakes up, Aramis," d'Artagnan tells his friend.

"Why should I? It's his own bloody fault. And you got yourself hurt to save his stupid ass! This has to stop!"

"I'm fine. Just do it. I think he's suffered enough today," D'Artagnan begs.

"What did he tell you?" asks Porthos, more sympathetically.

"I can't say. Please, just trust me…"

"Fine! But first let me take a look at that hand of yours," Aramis mutters begrudgingly. "Porthos, be a dear and get me some bandages and my herb bottles."

 

When Athos next wakes, Aramis forces him to drink a foul smelling potion, which is hard to keep down and he wants to retch up straight away, but Aramis holds his nose and mouth firmly shut, forcing him to keep it in, muttering encouraging words and stroking his hair. Athos thinks that Aramis may have forgiven him after all, but he isn't sure that he has forgiven himself.

When he wakens again it is early morning and his head no longer hurts. The drums in his temples have receded and he looks at his friends, all asleep in various positions in the pre dawn light: Aramis in the chair by the bed, d'Artagnan curled up on the other end of the bed, face scratched and bruised, hand bandaged up, and Porthos on the floor by the door, legs spread wide and snoring. He closes his eyes again, enjoying the closeness of his friends, to whom he owes a great debt of gratitude, and whose mercy he will throw himself upon when he can get out of bed.

A voice shocks him out of contemplation. He hadn't even heard the door opening.

"They are true and loyal friends, I'll give them that, but I should punish the lot of you for what you did today," Treville says quietly. "Luckily for you we found the horse, and the king had a good hunt, even enjoyed the extra entertainment."

"My apologies sir. I won't let it happen again," Athos replies.

"Don't. If you care about them like they care about you, don't make them risk their necks!" says Treville, before leaving as quietly as he had entered.

It isn't long before the others begin to stir, roused by the sounds of the garrison awakening around them and a cockerel crowing somewhere nearby. D'Artagnan uncurls himself elegantly and stretches out.

"How are you feeling?" he asks Athos

"Like an idiot," Athos admits.

"Good!" chimes in Aramis, although more softly he adds, "but an idiot without a head ache I hope."

"Can you please not scare us like that again?" pleads Porthos.

"I beg your forgiveness. All of you," he tells them, looking down.

"Oh don't be stupid. It was great fun. In fact, I think d'Artagnan might be a budding actor…" Aramis laughs.

"Fun? Next time you can chuck yourself off a horse!" says d'Artagnan in protest, although his eyes are laughing.

And Athos may feel like an idiot, but he also feels like the luckiest man in the world, to have three friends like these.

 

 


End file.
